Chapter Text
Feyre Archeron was born on the longest night of the year.
Her mother used to say that was why she was so withdrawn and strange—always preferring to hole up in her room with her paints and charcoals, even when doing so dirtied the pretty lace hem of her sleeves.
No self-respecting gentleman wants to marry a woman covered in charcoal, her mother often chastised. You look like a servant who's been made to clean the cinders.
Feyre thought about those words often when she would put down her materials and see the black smudges on her fingers. It made her smile. Marriage was the last thing she ever wanted. If she could do the thing she loved most and ward off any husbands by doing so, then in her eyes, that was only an endorsement of the practice.
And today, on the winter solstice—precisely 19 years following the night she was born—Feyre made certain to wipe those black smudges on her skirts, leaving unflattering streaks that were sure to discourage any suitors. There was a black streak on her cheekbone, which she also decided to leave.
Her mother would scoff and stomp her feet and perhaps even strike her in private later, but she'd made the mistake of allowing Feyre to ready herself without interference from the maids or even her sisters. She was due to present herself in ten minutes, and when she came downstairs with her hair untamed and her clothes sullied with charcoal, she would be confirming what everyone else in the mortal lands already suspected.
The youngest Archeron is unweddable.
It didn't matter what her mother said after that. She could shove Ferye into as many ribbons and laces and constricting dresses as she wanted. Once the minds of their peerage were decided, local suitors would promptly begin looking to the other eligible ladies making their seasonal debuts, and—if Feyre was lucky—she'd be sent to live with her great aunt in the countryside to keep from tarnishing the Archeron name. There, she'd be free to paint and run through the tall grass with her hair unbound and her feet bare, with no one to judge her but the watchful chickens and her clucking aunt.
The idea of that escape was pure bliss, no matter how many times her mother attempted to construe it as a threat.
Unfortunately, her act of rebellion was stoppered by her governess, catching her by her elbow as she made to dart down the stairs before she could be observed too closely. Through non-gentle force, she was made to stand still as her governess appraised her.
"What are you wearing?" She hissed. "This is unacceptable. Your mother will—"
"Be furious if I'm late," Feyre interjected, curling her fingers into fists at her side. It was bad enough that she wasn't wearing gloves, never mind that she hadn't wiped off the charcoal. If her governess discovered it, she was sure to turn Feyre back up the stairs and make her wash, and Feyre would be robbed of witnessing disgust twist the features of whatever suitor attempted to touch her and found themselves marked for it. She held the stern woman's gaze, feigning her best attempt at innocence. "There's no time for me to change."
The elder woman's face screwed up tight, assessing Feyre the way one might regard a toad squashed beneath a carriage wheel. Like she was confronting a grim fate that had progressed much too far to do anything to prevent it now.
With a resigned cluck, her governess swiped her thumb along her tongue and wiped the mark off Feyre's cheek. She winced away from the wet, unwelcoming touch, but it at least settled her governess enough to let Feyre go.
She darted the rest of the way down the stairs, making her way to the ballroom, already abuzz with music and chatter. The attendant standing by the entrance gave her an odd look when she flung herself through the doors, not for the state of her clothes, which he was sure to find commonplace, but for the glee spreading wide across her lips as she provided her name.
He, just like every other servant in the manor, had been instructed to keep an eye out in case she attempted to run away. That was the very first thing she'd threatened when Mother announced her intentions to throw a ball on her nineteenth birthday. But that was before Feyre had decided on the far better solution of sabotaging her marriage prospects.
"Announcing the youngest daughter of Lord Archeron: Miss Feyre Archeron."
All eyes turned to where she stood at the threshold, grin nothing short of cheshire as they took in her unkempt hair, her dirty clothes, the set of defiance in her shoulders. She knew they were all thinking she looked like a wild thing that had crawled in through the open doors, not a well-born daughter making her debut.
A gasp of outrage rose above the murmurings. She knew that was her Mother, finally taking notice, and Feyre hurried to immerse herself in the throng of dancing bodies before she could be caught and scolded. Her mother wouldn't risk making a scene, and Feyre wouldn't leave unless she was dragged out by her hair.
Joining the line of dancing, Feyre found herself paired with a young gentleman whose eyes glinted in a way that said he was amused by her antics. That amusement lasted only so long as the moment their palms raised to touch, and he retreated at the sight of the black dust on her fingers, snapping himself away as though she carried a contagious illness. Heads swivelled in their direction, judgment already being cast in hard, lancing daggers. Feyre welcomed each of them, a knight proudly shielding a princess from the world that sought to constrict around her, although in this case she was knight and princess both.
"What are you doing?" That voice belonged to Nesta, and so did the sharp nails digging into her wrist as she was pulled from the dancing. "Are you intent on putting Mother in her grave as well?"
Feyre rolled her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic."
"Don't be so irreverent!" Those cold, icy eyes were blazing. "Don't you understand how important this is? If we don't marry, there'll be no one to look after us once father is gone!"
It was hard, that word. Once. Everyone dies eventually. Feyre knew that. All mortals kept their lives tethered to a string of indefinite length, one that could be cut short at any moment. But it was different, to be able to see the end of the length. To know when it was approaching sooner rather than later.
Sometimes she felt her dread like a cold fist in her gut, and she could feel it now, growing tighter. "The doctors said he has a few months more. There's still plenty of time for you and Elain to find husbands."
There was the crux of it. Time was running short, not just for father, but for all of them. With no sons, there was no one to take over the estate once he passed. Their fortune would fall to an unknown relative, and there was no telling what would become of them. Marriage was the obvious answer, but Mother had wanted more time with Nesta and Elain, to secure them matches beyond even the highest echelons of their humble mortal lands. She had her eyes set on nobility from the continent, but she couldn't leave while her husband was sick, and so Feyre was chosen as the sacrificial lamb that would bide them all time.
Her task was to find a suitor with a kind heart, one who would not turn away Feyre's mother and sisters if the estate were inherited by an apathetic hand. Feyre's suggestion to simply take the Archeron fortune and flee before anyone could intervene fell on deaf ears.
Nesta's nails dug harder, threatening to break skin. "You're going to turn us all out on the streets, and for what? Your pride?"
Feyre yanked her wrist away, rubbing at the tender spot. "I don't want a husband! I don't want to— to trade my body to survive. I want to have a choice."
"This was your opportunity to have a choice. Anyone here would have made a decent husband, and this was your chance to charm them so you could have your pick. But after your behavior tonight, Mother will have to arrange something, and I promise you won't like who she picks."
And knowing Mother, her choice was sure to be vindictive and punishing. An image of an old man, wrinkled and cruel and far too grotesque to be selective about a bride, unfolded in her mind. Feyre thought she would rather make for the woods and take her chances with the fae, if that was to be her fate.
"You're lying," she whispered. Mother was stern and determined, yes, but she wouldn't… surely, she wouldn't…
"She'll do whatever it takes, Feyre," Nesta said, and her voice seemed strangled between reproach and awe. It was hard not to admire the way their mother could shape the world to her will, even when it was at the expense of their own happiness. "So don't waste your chance tonight. Go wash your hands. The men will look past how you're dressed if you can convince them you'd be a pleasant wife."
"I—" Feyre truly didn't wish to. But when she imagined wrinkled, pockmarked hands lifting a bridal veil from her face, she decided that maybe she could make an effort. Maybe she could find someone in attendance who was endeared by her antics, like that first suitor had been, someone who still let her paint and run freely so long as she flashed enough pretty smiles to wrap them around her finger.
"Go pretend you're stepping out for air," Nesta said. "Use the fountain in the courtyard, then come back once you've composed yourself."
Biting her cheek, Feyre did as she was told. The sting of night air was a welcome reprieve from the ballroom, and away from the noise, she felt like she could think clearer. Breathe deeper. Maybe Nesta was right, and she'd been looking at this the wrong way, like a spoiled child. It was naive to think Mother would give up and send Feyre away instead of taking matters into her own hands.
The gaslamps were lit only so far as where the flagstone path dispersed into stepping stones. They hadn't wanted to encourage guests to come out this far, shrouded in the shadows of the tall hedges on either side of the path, away from the discerning eyes of chaperones. Feyre took the steps one at a time, listening for the sound of the bubbling fountain at the garden's center to guide her through the dark.
When she emerged, she was grateful that the hedges fell away to allow swaths of moonlight to pour overhead, bathing the garden in silver. All that remained in the flowerbeds at this time of year were the hardy lavender bushes, but their scent filled the space, crisp and clean. At the center, a maiden rose out of a pool of water, stretching her arms beseechingly towards the sky, as if begging whatever indifferent gods watched on for kindness, for mercy. Feyre knew the feeling, wondered if she couldn't just fit herself onto the pedestal beside the maiden and let that be her fate.
She thought it would be less lonely than marrying a stranger. At least out here, it was quiet and peaceful, and the moon and the stars could be her stalwart companions.
Feyre was so taken by her musings that at first she didn't notice the man sitting at the lip of the fountain. He blended so well into the darkness, it was only when he raised his head and the moonlight slanted across half of his face that she registered he was there.
Her lips parted, stunned less by him being there than she was at his appearance. She'd never met him before, not from what she could tell from the portion of his face that was visible. No one in the village had eyes like that—violet, like the lavender that bloomed in arm's reach. She wanted to pluck one of the columns just so she could hold it to his face and compare. Surely it was just a trick of the light; no one's eyes could really be that color.
Even so, she wanted to paint him, just like this. Purple eyes glowing in a veil of moonlight and shadow. They were the most striking thing about him. Or so she thought, until he stood from the fountain in a single, fluid motion, and she glimpsed his entire face in full.
He was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.
"Who are you?" She asked, which she supposed made her a poor host.
His lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. "Rhysand," he answered, bowing at the waist. "But my friends call me Rhys."
"No family name?" She questioned, growing uneasy. "I wouldn't dare be so familiar, Mister…"
"Rhys," he insisted. "Please, it would honor me if you would call me by that name."
"I don't believe I've seen you before," Feyre said, momentarily surrendering the ordeal of his name. "Are you new to the village?"
He was dressed like an aristocrat. The black cape over his shoulders was embroidered with crystal beading that caught and bounced as he moved. The jacket beneath was of midnight blue velvet, which was also detailed with crystal thread and silver embroidery. She suspected the black sash tied around his waist was made of silk, and though the fashion overall was quite foreign to her, there was no doubt it was all fine quality.
Someone like him would have stirred the gossip mill to bursting. Everyone would be inquiring as to whether this handsome new arrival was married or looking for a bride. There wasn't a chance she wouldn't have heard about him.
"No," he said, "I'm visiting relatives."
Feyre exhaled a weary breath. "I see. And they've brought you along to this ball?"
Those extraordinary eyes followed the direction she'd come, where the sounds of merriment could still be heard, though faint and distant. It reminded Feyre of submerging her head in water, the way sounds would drift and float away, existing somewhere separate.
"I prefer the quiet," he said.
His admission softened her suspicion of him.
"My name's Feyre," she volunteered, delivering a mockery of the curtsey her governess had taught.
Rhys raised a brow. "No family name?"
"You didn't tell me yours. It's only fair I reserve mine."
This time when he fought his smile, the smile won. Feyre was only a bystander, but she felt she'd taken the brunt of that winning blow. She'd seen plenty of beautiful things before, things that inspired her to paint, calling to her in the form of color and shape and shadow, begging her to immortalize its likeness. She'd never seen a beautiful man, though. At least not one who made her feel winded.
Some girls pretended to faint to get the attention of suitors, and Feyre always rolled her eyes at them, but now she was questioning how many of those girls were simply caught up in this feeling. This sinking, terrifying, dizzying feeling.
"Are you alright?" Rhysand asked. He took a step toward her, arms hovering like he expected she might sway forward. Was he used to girls fainting at the sight of him? Feyre didn't doubt it, and that only strengthened her resolve not to make a fool of herself.
"I'm fine," she sniffed. "I've come out here for some quiet, same as you."
While that wasn't technically true, Feyre didn't see how she could wash her hands in the fountain without explaining herself. And she really didn't want to explain herself.
Her eyes flickered to the stone maiden, still appealing to the gods, and she wondered if this was some sort of gift. It was too dark for Rhysand to notice the state of her clothes. Perhaps if she charmed him, she could disappear before he was any wiser about the poor impression she'd set out to make.
"Do you know the family?" Rhysand asked, nodding towards the manor.
Feyre fought a giggle. "Oh yes, quite well. Have you come hoping to wed one of Lord Archeron's daughters?"
"Well, I should like to meet them before I decide one way or another," Rhysand said, and she could hear the humor creeping into his voice. He liked that she was teasing him. "And would you give the daughters your endorsement?"
"They're all of fine stock," Feyre answered thoughtfully. "The eldest two especially. If you're looking for a beautiful face with the wit to match, you need look no further."
"And the youngest?" He questioned. "I hear tonight is her debut into society."
Feyre hummed. "Well, that depends, sir. Would you prefer to have a flower you could pluck and place in a shiny vase, or…" She tipped her head, acknowledging the vast night sky where it drifted so untouchably high above them. "Would you prefer a star, knowing that it could only ever be admired from afar?"
Rhysand didn't need very long to think about it. "A flower wilts once it's plucked, but a star would light and guide my path until I'm the one who withers." In her periphery, Feyre could see him studying her. "I would choose the star."
"That's a good answer. Maybe you would suit the youngest daughter."
"Is she like a star, then?"
She snorted. If her family were here, they'd laugh as if he'd told a joke. "Only in the sense that she's withdrawn and cold."
"I don't mind withdrawn," Rhysand said. "I'm out here, after all. And cold? There's something I can do about that."
Feyre turned to him, confused. She became even more so when she saw him unlatch the silver buckle of his cape. Loose stone skidded underfoot as she peddled back a step, her heart leaping at the sight of a man undressing while they were alone, in the dark—
The slant of her thoughts difused, however, when he removed the cape and deftly slung it over her shoulders. Feyre stilled, feeling the unfamiliar weight settle over her. The phantom heat of his body was still trapped in the fabric, surrounding her in warmth and the pleasant scent of citrus and the sea. Was that where he was from? Somewhere by the sea?
"I—" she didn't realize until she felt the warmth numbing her frozen skin, that she had been cold. It was winter, after all, and though the sky was clear, she was only in a dress. "Thank you."
He nodded, and they lapsed into silence as Feyre scrambled to process what had happened. Had he known who she was the whole time, or had he simply pieced it together as they spoke? She felt embarrassed now, and wearing his cape only made it worse as she thought about the charcoal on her hands and how terrified she was of ruining the fine fabric.
Just as she was debating the merits of bolting, Rhysand asked, "What are you doing out here, Feyre? You're meant to be inside, celebrating your birthday."
Being called Feyre sent an odd thrill through her. All the gentlemen inside called her Miss Archeron. That's what was proper. But here she was, unmarried and unchaperoned with a strange man in the dark, wearing his clothes, calling each other by their first names.
If anyone came outside and caught them, she could be ruined. Even her mother might struggle to find a match who would overlook it.
She found herself drifting closer to him, enchanted by the freedom he presented. Would she be dragging her sisters down with her? Feyre wanted to lean up on her tiptoes, to let him kiss her. The taste of him could decide what their fate would be.
"I came out to wash my hands," she said.
Rhys tilted his head. "Is that figurative?"
"No." Feyre let out a sharp, breathy laugh and pointed to the fountain. It wasn't frozen over yet, but the water inside would be piercing. "I have charcoal on them from drawing. I don't want to get it on your—"
As she stepped toward the fountain, Rhys moved to block her way. She drew up, taken aback by the abrupt motion, and outright gasped when he grabbed her wrists, raising her dirtied palms to the moonlight.
"I-I apologize sir," she stuttered, uncertain what had set him off. Even the boy she'd danced with hadn't reacted so overtly. "I meant no—"
Rhysand guided her palm to his chest and pressed it into the fabric above his heart. His heat zapped her icy fingers, and she gasped again, even as she found herself leaning in, flexing her hand firmer into his warm, solid chest.
"You can mark my clothes, Feyre, I don't mind." He leaned closer, whispering like he was sharing a secret with her, though they were the only two people in the garden. "I only wish it were something more permanent than charcoal."
Rhysand pulled forth her other hand and laid that one upon his chest as well, and then he blanketed the backs of her hands with his own, warding off the chill. She didn't need to worry about it anymore. His touch was so scorching she could feel it filling her bones, flushing her face a red as vibrant as any of the flowers that Elain saw fit to plant in her garden.
She should chide him for being so forward. She should move away, break towards one of the lavender bushes so she could inhale its familiar scent and be broken from this spell. This haze of Rhysand.
"I have paint as well," she said dumbly. "That might leave a more hardy stain."
"I wonder if your lips would stain," he murmured, dropping his face to hers. He was so close she could taste the brandy on his breath. "Shall we test?"
Feyre must have been everything Nesta ever accused her of being—foolish, dim-witted, selfish, idiotic, she could go on—because she found her eyes fluttering shut, her neck craning to offer her permission.
"Feyre!" A shrill voice cried, breaking them apart.
She swivelled towards the garden entrance, where she could hear Nesta's feet clapping against the stepping stones. Feyre was flooded with relief. Her sister hadn't yet made it out of the hedges; she hadn't witnessed what was about to occur. Feyre quickly turned to urge Rhysand to hide, but he was ahead of her, already disappearing behind a hedge.
He was out of sight by the time Nesta burst through one of the four entrances, her breathing rapid and her eyes wild.
"What is it?" Feyre asked, struggling to keep her voice even. How long had she been gone? Had it been an eternity, or only a few seconds? It somehow felt like both.
"It's father," Nesta said, gasping for breath. "Father's dead."